Unless I Turn My Face to You
by MyPhoenixLament
Summary: A collection of unconnected JacobxBella drabbles.
1. Come Back Home

**Author's Notes:** In the end, I always tend to come back to writing unconnected Jacob/Bella drabbles. So when I do, they'll get posted here. A lot are in response to challenges on LiveJournal, where my username is peskywhistpaw, and where these drabbles are originally posted. There will **not** be a specific update schedule; drabbles will simply be added as they are written. I try to do a drabble challenge once a month, though, so there's that. The first several are from over the years. This first one is from August.

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><p><strong>Come Back Home<strong>

One of the things Jacob knows and loves about Bella is that she always comes back. She's left every winter (except for every other Christmas), but turned up every summer that he can remember, smile shy as she stands just a little behind Charlie; her eyes are always unsure when they see everybody, but when they find Jacob, they start to dance. (Which makes Jacob start to dance, and his sisters groan.)

So when Bella goes to the kitchen to make some hot chocolate this Christmas break (Jacob isn't allowed to use the microwave), he's confident she'll come back in a few minutes, holding their two favorite mugs with oven mitts (just in case).

After ten minutes pass, though, Jacob starts to frown. Bella isn't back yet.

"Bells?" he calls. No answer. He sounds her name off every wall in the house, and when that does no good, he shoves on his shoes and races outside into the snow.

He almost runs into her, standing by the woodpile with her shoulders shaking. When she turns around, her face is coated in tears. (Bella crying used to make him cry, too, except she cries a lot, and he's gotten used to it now. That doesn't stop him from wrapping his tiny arms around her.)

"What's wrong?" he asks.

Bella sniffles. "The poor _bird_," she whimpers.

"What bird?"

Bella points. On top of the woodpile, a little grey and brown bird sits with its feathers ruffled up for warmth. It's alive (Jacob sighs, relieved), but it looks so cold.

Jacob thinks for a moment, then announces, "We'll have to make it a house. To get it warm."

Bella wipes her eyes. "Okay," she agrees, and they set to work.

Fifteen minutes later, Jacob's house has been looted of its best shoeboxes and fluffiest towels, plus Rebecca's secret stash of those hand warmers you put in your mittens. The bird is so cold that it detects the heat of the hand warmers right away, and cuddles up in the box without protest.

"Poor bird." Bella sniffs again. "It didn't want to leave Forks."

She's silent for the first few minutes they go back into the house, pursing her lips while she makes hot chocolate, getting quieter still while Jacob rearranges their blanket fort so they won't spill their drinks, entirely wordless while they sip them carefully.

When she's finished all of her hot chocolate, though, wiping the foamy mustache from above her mouth, she sets down her mug and turns to Jacob.

"I'll be like the bird," Bella promises, twining their hands together. "I'll stay till spring. I'll stay all year. You can keep me warm. I don't want to leave Forks."

Jacob knows she probably won't stay this year, even though she means what she says; Charlie or her mom or _somebody_ will make her go back to Phoenix, like they always do. But he also knows that someday – when she's older – she _will _stay, and keep her promise.

And then, together, they'll watch the flowers pop up out of the snow and the world come to life and the birds fly back home.**  
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	2. The Place Where

**Author's Notes:** From December 2009.**  
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><p><strong>The Place Where<strong>

Here, in this silence: his hand clasped in yours, yours in his; sunlight in golden streams upon your skin. The trees glow as the afternoon grey rolls out like retreating thunder.

"It was... um... here," you say, swallowing, shadows of old holes darting across your chest. The forest path bends gently through the green—green, like life. Not sinister. Not misleading. No labyrinth of heartache.

He touches the bark of vine maple and pine. Their roots form a shelter that has harbored the empty—the empty that waited to be found. It is as familiar as a picture pressed into your eyes by countless hours of obsession. Of reliving—of dying again.

"Where Sam found you?" he asks. (Warm eyes, warm hands.)

You pause at the way he phrases this: here is not where you were abandoned, but from whence you were carried home.

_Home_.

"Yes."

He quirks a smile. "It's just a place, Bells."

You're trembling, you realize. (And then you blush, shove his arm with your free hand.)

_It's just a place_.

"Hey," he says. "You wanna take a walk?"

"Aren't we already?" But you're smiling now, too. It's just a place, and it's alive, thrumming with invisible vibrance. The picture fades, melting into something new.

"Not with you just standing there, we aren't," he grins. "C'mon, Bells... I want you to come with me. Miles to go before we sleep, and all that."

You stick out your tongue: uncharacteristic, light, free. "You know I can't do miles, Jake."

"Well... when you trip over a rock, which you probably will, I'll be there to... y'know..."

"Catch me?"

"I was just gonna say I'd stop you from bleeding, but if you're gonna get all corny on me –"

Your cheeks hurt, and it feels good.

"No," you say. "I think I'm done with corny."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

A look passes between you, fluid as wind. Then he guides you along the path with quiet footsteps, and you tread softly like welcome strangers. Like children, full of wonder, you sense the shivery thrill of each moment as it passes.

(So this is what it feels like to breathe.)

He'll never leave you here; he's steady, sturdy; you _know_.

"Jake?" you say.

"Yeah?"

"Thanks."

For there are already so many things that you, yourself, have left behind.


	3. The Adventures of Bello and Jakewina

**Author's Notes:** From September.**  
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><p><strong>The Adventures of Bello and Jakewina<strong>

"My teacher says I should try and think of different people to write my stories about," Billy hears Jacob tell Bella over the phone.

There's a pause. "Well, I always write stories about us, of course. We're really interesting."

Lately, Jacob has been using words like 'interesting' when speaking to Bella. Billy isn't sure whether Bella is trying to teach Jacob to sound more intelligent and contemplative, or if Jacob has been looking through Rachel and Rebecca's old spelling tests to try and impress her.

"No, I tried that," Jacob says after a slightly longer pause.

And after another: "But I'm _not_ a girl and you're not a _boy_." Billy abruptly stops picking at his pastrami sandwich.

A few seconds later, Jacob nods, looking satisfied. "Okay," he says. "That's really smart. Thanks, Bells."

He hangs up the phone.

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><p>The Advenchurs of Bello and Jakewina<br>by Jacob Black 10/7/98

Once there was a boy named Bello who was always quite and a girl named Jakewina who was always really loud but Jakewina always lisened to Bello so it was good that they were freinds. Also Bello really liked that Jakewina was so pritty even tho Bello never told Jakewina she was pritty and Jakewina new that becas she could read Bellos mind. Anyway Jakewina liked to tak Bello into the forest becas the trees and stuf were as pritty as Jakewina was and also as pritty as Bello was for a boy. they playd lots of gams and stuf like hide and seek and also they lerned how to fly becas ther freinds new how. One day they cot a fish in the river wich was in the forest and it gav them 3 wishs only they had to shar the 3 wishs. Jakewina wished frist becas Jakewinas dad always says ladys go frist so she did and she wished for her own car. Bello wished for a big book becas he liks them and not cars. but then they had 1 wish left so they thot and thot and then wished for a milon more wishs so they could have a nice weding and be hapy becas thats smart the end

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><p>There are some times when Billy is concerned about his son and the things he finds at the bottom of Jacob's backpack. Before Bella started visiting Charlie every summer, this might have been one of them. Now, he simply sighs, folds the paper more neatly, and tries to think of a place to put it where it won't accidentally be found by one of the twins.<p> 


	4. The Apple and Eve

**Author's Notes:** From May 2008.**  
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><p><strong>The Apple and Eve<strong>

Here's the story you haven't heard:

Eve leaves Eden for a place that isn't paradise, a place that's still green and fertile but cold with rain and ice. She meets a boy there who's named Adam, created in the image of humanity. And Eve loves Adam and Adam loves Eve, even when she is made a juxtaposition to his beauty. (Because Eve has never really minded being invisible.)

But everyone has secrets—Adam, most of all. One day he turns into a serpent and hangs from the charred and twisted branches of a dying tree. He offers Eve a bright red apple with hope in his eyes and promises upon his tongue.

Then Eve meets another boy in this garden that isn't Eden. He's not quite like her—_not exactly_—but he knows her better than she knows herself, and he warms this cold, green place like the sun.

And Eve loves this boy and he loves her, because he keeps her safe when they take risks; and he's the stability that her crumbling life has lacked.

Here's the story you haven't heard:

Eve accepts the apple, but she doesn't take a bite.

_(After Bella leaves Edward, still wearing her wedding dress on the back of Jacob's motorcycle, she never eats apples again.)_


	5. Apollo 13

**Author's Notes:** From December 2009.**  
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><p><strong>Apollo 13<strong>

Hey Bells!

_Did you seriously just pass me a note when I'm sitting right here?_

Did you seriously just pass me a note back when you're seriously unsure if I'm passing you a note? Besides, you're on the couch, and I'm on the floor. It's like we're in separate worlds. Or maybe on different planets.

_Does that make me an alien?_

Maybe. You are kind of funny looking.

_Says the seven-foot-tall werewolf._

Yeah, well, that's normal on my planet. We can't help it down here if you're a pale midget who likes Shakespeare.

_Oh, so liking Shakespeare makes me an alien?_

Obviously... Hey! Stop trying to read what I'm writing! You've got to give me time to perfect my response. I'm trying to impress an alien Shakespeare freak, here.

_Thanks, Jake._

Any time.

_It would be sort of nice, though._

What?

_To be on another planet._

Don't tell me it's been your lifelong goal to be an astronaut, Bells. Because if that's true, then I definitely didn't see it coming.

_No! I mean... you'd be lightyears away from all your problems._

Have you or have you not seen Apollo 13?

_You know what I mean! You'd just be in space, where... where the past doesn't matter. It wouldn't matter who you are. You can be anybody. _

I think there are a lot of people who don't want you to be just anybody, Bells.

_Maybe I want to be, though. I don't want to be special._

Well, it's kind of hard not to be, when you're a pale, Shakespeare-loving, alien midget.

_Be serious, Jake._

I am! It matters to me who you are.

_Then I must have been a pretty big disappointment the last couple of years._

You know the other thing about Apollo 13?

_Is that your favorite movie, or something?_

Hear me out.

_Okay, fine. What?_

Those guys had some huge problems, but they got through them. They didn't quit, or run away, or anything. They thought they were gonna die, but they did everything they could to live. And they did. That's why they did. Live, I mean. Outer space has a whole new set of problems, Bells. You can't go anywhere to escape the past, and you can't go anywhere to escape yourself. You'll always be who you are, and you'll always have to deal with it. I don't get why it's so hard for you to live with yourself. I mean, you're not alone, you know. Or at least, you don't have to be. I can't stop you if that's what you want. But I just want you to know that I'll always be here for you, if that's what you want, instead. Okay, Bells? OKAY?

...Wow. Are you crying? See, this is what you get for reading over my shoulder.

_Shut up._

Aw, you know you love me.

_Actually, Jake? Yeah. I think I do._


	6. Wake Up

**Author's Notes:** From September. This was for a genderswap challenge, so keep that in mind when you read.**  
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><p><strong>Wake Up<strong>

He says, "I think I'm giving up."

And she says, "God, God, don't you dare."

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><p>Some of the other girls might think it's romantic that he's so broken up over the ex who dumped him in the middle of the woods, but she doesn't. It frightens her to death. She wakes up in the middle of the night sometimes, cold sweat on her warm skin, and has to fight everything within her to not pick up the phone and dial his number (memorized when they were kids) to make sure he's still breathing.<p>

It makes her angry, how many people there are who don't see it. From the haunted look in Charlie Swan's eyes, though, she knows that at least he isn't one of them. She can trace the dark circles and lines on his face back to every moment he's spent each night, peeking through the crack in his son's door, just in case.

Nobody should make anyone hurt like this. Love shouldn't drive you into the ground; it should consume you and then make you fly.

It frustrates her so much, how he doesn't seem to see this.

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><p>"Wake up," she says, pulling the covers from his bed in the light of the early morning.<p>

"I was going to," he grumbles. "My alarm won't go off yet for ten minutes. What are you doing here, anyway?"

"Your dad let me in. We're going out."

"What?" He sits up and rubs his eyes groggily. "I have school."

"Not today. I've been given express permission from the Police Chief of Forks himself to cut class and take you the hell away from here."

"I don't – "

"I will _wrestle_ you out of this house if I have to," she interrupts. "I don't care if you're a guy; you know I'm stronger than you. So whether you want to be seen in public in your pajamas is up to you, okay?"

"My dad has a gun," he threatens, his voice just a shade less monotone.

She rolls up her sleeves. "Well, baby," she says, flexing, "I've got _these _guns. Is there really any contest?"

The smile on his face is just a ghost of what used to surface there, but it still makes her heart leap, because it's a start.

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><p>He says, "I just don't get it. The point of anything, I mean."<p>

And she says, "The point is to live. So get that into your head, dummy."

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><p>The day he laughs for the first time is the day Charlie tells her there haven't been any nightmares for a week. Father and son – their eyes are looking brighter.<p>

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><p>Because it's time, she asks, "What made this girl so special, anyway?"<p>

And he says after a pause, "She loved me."

She thinks, _I fell in love with you a little bit the moment I first met you_, but doesn't say it.

There are some things she'll push; there are other things she'll wait for.

For now, she's just working on those smiles.


	7. Blindly Unhindered in Your Own Descent

**Author's Notes:** From August 2009.**  
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><p><strong>Blindly Unhindered in Your Own Descent<strong>

You forget which Jacob you fell in love with.

There's the Jacob who came before the wolf, and the Jacob who came after, and there's the now-Jacob who walks in front of you every day, and you can hardly recognize them all as the same person.

The now-Jacob looks at you with fleeting, blank eyes, not cold, but not right, either, because they don't shine with reflected smiles the way they used to, the way the before-Jacob's did. The before-Jacob was sunny and knew nothing, but then again, neither did you, so that was okay, because at the same time both of you knew too much, just not about the right things. You could take his hand, and he'd think of it as a hopeful chance, not a promise you would break as you scattered the ashes of his once-pure heart over the ocean. There was an innocence to his eagerness then, even though you'd both had to grow up so fast it was almost unfair.

The after-Jacob was just angry – _God, was he angry_– but at least his mouth curved with recognition and he always knew your name, the variations of it that burned like fire and sent shivers down your spine to curl your sand-covered toes. At least, for a little while, before he realized who you really were, and that he'd lost the game, and shouldn't be hanging on, but he was in too deep.

He looks the same, even if his expression is different.

He's three bright splashes of paint on white and grey walls that should blend together, dripping down and becoming the same shade, just darker or lighter, and all the better for it. He should be, but he isn't. He's really watercolors, separated by uneven lines of wax until he seeps deeper and deeper into the paper because he has nowhere else to go. He's this Rorschach test – _what do you see?_ – composed of different parts that you just can't put together, because they don't belong together, and the glimpses of images you _can_ identify look like nightmares while you have your right eye closed.

It's all wrong.

And you – _you, you, you_– made him this way.

You can make your bed, and almost sleep in it, too, but you'll never feel the warmth of his body as he drapes his arm over your stomach and snores into the other pillow.

So you can love him, even if you don't remember when the feeling started, where it was planted and grew, twisted and teasing, toward the sun.

Because it doesn't matter.

Because the cracks in his voice aren't meant for you, the nervous twitch of his fingers, the catch in his breath.

Because you were greedy with time, and took it all away, like a rug pulled out from underneath his feet. You ate it up – _time_– with a laugh you didn't recognize as you flicked your hair over your shoulder.

Because he's a husband, and you a wife, but the line next to his name on the family tree doesn't connect to yours.

Not by a long shot, unless memory counts for something.

(And it doesn't.)

Because you are cold, cold, _cold_, and Jacob is a caricature of himself with invisible puppet strings looped around his wrists and ankles and every place in between. He is hanging on the wall. Perfect.

Because that's the way everything was meant to be.

You look up as night falls, and the moon leaves lines of silvery admonition across your sleepless face, daggers and pointing fingers – _I told you so, you should have known_.

You, you, you.

Everything is about you.

"Edward," you whisper, because you're frightened.

And when he answers you, touches your icy cheek, you know this is your punishment, this is your forever, what you deserve.

Because he'll always be there.

Because he's not the one you want.

Because he's all that you have left.

Because every _I love you _is a condemnation that even he can't hear.

Because you are so wrapped up in yourself that you don't notice, sometimes, when Jacob blinks, and there's clarity in his stare for just a moment as he looks at you and _longs_, as the earth shifts and all the colors run together, as he waits for you – because you can lift the spell and free him, as easy as flipping a switch, if you only knew.

But you, you, _you_ are captain of this ship, perched at the helm as you bind your own hands and stare off beyond the hapless, spinning wheel at the tempest that lashes out to whip your brown hair, your white skin, the slash of your red frown. You will sink – _let_ everything sink. The empty lifeboats are mired in your own stubbornness.

And there is no one – _no one_– who you will let jump into the churning sea.

Edward murmurs reassuring words you don't want to hear, and you curl into him, into the cold. A single wolf howls into the outside sky. Then there are others.

Mournful.

Waiting.

Calling.

You close your eyes.

And not for the first time, you pretend that you remember how to dream.


	8. Permanence

**Author's Notes:** From April 2008.**  
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><p><strong>Permanence<strong>

In one hundred years, Forks has not changed, as though, once Bella went away, it fell under the spell of Sleeping Beauty's castle. It is like a memory that has been preserved, except that there are no people she can recognize; they are all strangers, intruders that have no place in her thoughts.

She sees faces, sometimes, that almost look familiar, but the familiarities are always marred by something _new_. They are of a generation that is foreign to her.

She thinks she can forgive this, withstand and accept this, until she reaches Charlie's house. It is a while before she recalls how to find it, for by now, she has visited so many places that _home_ is no longer a tangible location; and she does not _expect_ to find it either, to have survived as long as she.

But Charlie's house still stands, preserved as a historical landmark: it is more than a hundred and fifty years old.

And it is empty.

Haunted and frightened, Bella flees; this is not how she remembers leaving things.

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><p>She goes to La Push, just to see, for she is burdened with curiosity and gluttonous for pain.<p>

The trees have swallowed the reservation so that it is now an endless forest instead of a place to inhabit. Here, there are no faces, no features that might stir her still heart into feeling. It is only wilderness untamed.

Bella finds a graveyard—easily; it smells just like her. There is a headstone for Billy Black, for Sam Uley and Claire Ateara and others over which her eyes simply graze. But when she looks, waiting for one particular name to scream out at her as she passes by, she is disappointed.

Jacob was never buried here.

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><p>Bella walks through the forest slowly—something demands she move at a normal, human pace. There is no magic here, it seems, just age, and she feels almost young; the trees swim in a thousand years of silence.<p>

It is a sort of therapy, she thinks, to go somewhere in which time means so little.

Without the distraction of hunger and weariness, she travels three days and does not pause, continuing on in a straight line as though there is a path that she must follow, lain out for only her eyes to see.

But Bella stops when she first catches the _scent_.

She waits, startled and alert, for the source of it to reveal itself; she does not trust her own perception—her recognition.

It takes several minutes for a large, russet wolf to quietly weave its way toward her, regarding her with familiar eyes that do not seem surprised.

She never expects that in one hundred years, Jacob will still be waiting for her.

For a moment, he disappears behind a rock, reappearing again not as a wolf, but as a man. His hair is longer, perhaps, but he is still tall and strong and full of infectious grins. When she looks closer, she thinks he must not have aged a single day.

"Hey Bells," he says, and he pulls her into an embrace that should crush her. "You really stink, you know. I could smell you five miles away."

When he releases her, she stares at him. "You're not dead."

There are some habits that she has never overcome.

Jacob frowns. "That's not really the reception I was hoping for, but I guess I'll have to take it."

Bella continues to stare.

"Come on, Bella, did you forget that you're not the only one who gets to live longer than everybody else?"

She _has _forgotten, but now the memory returns to her as if it has never been lost.

Werewolves, when they can still exist as such, do not age.

"But you shouldn't—" she stammers. "You were supposed to—"

"Die?" he laughs humorlessly.

Bella stops herself from nodding.

"Why?" she asks instead.

"Things got pretty bad after you left." He pauses. "Billy died after a couple of years, and it was just… it was a lot." Jacob shrugs; Bella wonders if there is something else that he is neglecting to reveal—if Billy's death was not the only thing to blame. "People stopped phasing, since the bloodsuckers were gone, but I just didn't change back."

Sometimes, she wishes she could cry.

"But you're alone," she whispers. She could not have chosen a less suitable fate.

"You're here, aren't you?"

"I still don't deserve you."

This time, his laugh is warm. "Sure, sure," he tells her, "but does anyone deserve what they get?"

For a moment, she thinks of Edward.

"What happened to him, by the way?" Jacob asks, reading her expression.

Bella winces. The rationale of the day had been: you do not anger the Volturi unless you want to die—_or you believe there is a chance you can get away with it_.

"He's dead."

She can tell he wants to ask her why, how, but he holds his tongue.

"I'm sorry," he says.

"Me too."

Jacob takes her hand, and she can almost feel the warmth of his skin—memory can maintain many things. "You know, I think it's about time you started to live a little, anyway."

Bella considers staring at him again—_living _is such a relative concept, after all. But she decides against it.

What else is really left, at this point, to do?

And besides, she thinks: Jacob was always so good at bringing things back to life.

Without a word, Bella nods.


	9. The Apple Allergy Dilemma

**Author's Notes:** A bit of absolute crack.**  
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><p><strong>The Apple Allergy Dilemma<strong>

"Bad news," says Jacob, his face a mask of seriousness. "Jared's allergic to apples."

At least, Bella _thinks _it's a mask. But neither he nor any of the others are laughing. Most, actually, look less somber, and more horrified. Collin and Brady seem on the verge of tears. She's gotten better at picking up on when everyone's joking, now, but this is one of those times when she's not sure.

Mostly, she just _hopes _they're joking.

"This is preposterous!" cries Seth.

"It's a _Halloween party_," Quil whines. "You can't have a Halloween party without being able to bob for apples. That's just –"

"Preposterous," Seth supplies.

"Sick," Quil agrees.

"What kind of person even has an apple allergy?" Paul demands.

Jacob clears his throat. "Guys, seriously! It's okay. All we have to do is think of something else to bob for – something people _aren't_ allergic to –"

"And by _people_, you mean Jared," Jared mutters.

The others ignore him.

"How about bread?" cries someone.

"Apples!" cries another.

"No, stupid!" shouts a third.

"Very small rocks!" cries a fourth.

(There is a great uproar when Leah, who has been watching the proceedings with about as much disbelief as Bella, rolls her eyes and drily brings up the subject of ducks – though a near riot occurs at the suggestion of letting a freshly-baked batch of Emily's muffins fester in a dirty barrel of water.

"SACRILEGE!" Embry screeches, shocking everyone.)

Bella sighs, and shoots a look at Jacob – who seems a bit dejected about losing the chance to mention cider or great gravy.

"Oh, hey," says Seth, noticing her glance. "I think Bella has an idea."

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><p>The night of the party, a group of dumbfounded-looking werewolves gather around a small barrel, wordlessly staring at its contents.<p>

"That's actually kind of insulting," says Leah, not looking insulted at all.

"They're not even edible," Collin whines.

"At least they're buoyant," Sam remarks.

"Yeah," says Embry, "but 'Bobbing for Squeaky Toys' doesn't really have a great ring to it, does it?"

They regard the mixture of multicolored bones, balls, and plastic steaks, all floating blissfully around in the barrel. Everyone is silent.

Then –

"Bella has a sense of humor!" Jared exclaims in shock. Jacob tackles him.

When Quil moves to give her a high-five, Bella smiles and meets him halfway.

_Boys_.


	10. Glass Slippers

**Author's Notes: **Takes place during _New Moon_.

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><p><strong>Glass Slippers<strong>

"I feel like Harry Potter," Jacob grumbles, trying to stretch out his legs in the narrow aisle. He's frowning at Bella, clearly waiting to be put out of his misery. She watches him warily. The further his legs extend, the closer he comes to toppling the precarious, multicolored stacks of shoeboxes that barricade the pair of them between the shelves, solitary, discarded shoes littering the ground like the casualties of war.

Bella carefully steps around an empty box; she hasn't moved in the last hour without a hand glued to the stable, solid metal of the shelves. She and Jacob have managed to create a personal hell for the uncoordinated, an obstacle course of death for the klutzes of the world. Klutzes like Bella, who isn't sure how a trip to the shoe store got so very out of hand. It's the kind of thing that would tempt her to scratch her head, if that wouldn't involve letting go of her anchor.

"Hey," she says, steadying herself again before continuing. "You wouldn't be looking at me like that if you _really _felt like Harry Potter."

"I would if you were his cousin."

"Great. I'm Harry Potter's fat cousin. It's always great hanging out with you, Jake." She shakes her head. "No, you know who you're like?"

He pretends to glower at her. "Nuh uh. Don't you _dare_say Cinderella. Or Voldemort. Not really wanting to be Voldemort, either."

Bella grins. "Well, just imagine if she had to go shoe shopping. Um. Cinderella. Not Voldemort. She had such freaky tiny feet, it would be impossible to find anything for her. She probably had to wear those glass slippers forever."

He wrinkles his nose. "That's pretty unsanitary."

"They'd be easier to clean than normal shoes," she insists, practically. "We should see if they sell any glass slippers in _your _size, since your shoe-buying problems seem pretty parallel to hers, just..."

"Only, like, the opposite."

"Exactly."

"Freaky _big _feet."

"Right."

Jacob looks thoughtful, tapping his finger against his chin. "I don't think glass slippers would have very good arch support..."

Bella laughs. The sound is so much more familiar to her now. "You're a _little _too into this," she says, forcing a frown at him. "I'm starting to prefer your whole 'the shoe chooses the werewolf theory."

"I think my shoes already _did _choose me," he complains. "Two weeks ago. Three days before they got shredded. They were the ones, until Fate's cruel hand intervened and separated us forever."

"Poor Jake. Will you ever love again?"

Her stomach squirms a little when he pointedly catches her eye.

"I think I can manage," he jokes lightly, but his expression is still more serious than she'd like. She threads nervous fingers through her hair, which is just enough of a distraction to cause her to lose her balance.

"_Crap_," she mutters as her knee slams into one of the shelves. Several shoeboxes that had heretofore managed to remain unscathed spill from their perches like a flock of startled birds.

All at once, Jacob is too close, picking his way over the rubble to make sure she's all right – just as he always does. He catches her shoulders before her other knee can do anymore damage.

"Leave it to you," he mutters, right in her ear.

"This is a _death trap_," she insists, feebly. She tries to shrug away from the warmth of his hands, and then tries not to feel a little disappointed when he lets her go.

"Now, come on, Cinderella," Bella says, determined not to fall again. "Or Voldemort. Or whoever you are. Let's find you those glass slippers." She glances out of the aisle. "Or maybe leave before that sales clerk has a heart attack."


	11. The Girl in the Woods

**Author's Notes:** The kind of mood I was in today. Listen to rainymood[dot]com and "Þú ert sólin" by Ólafur Arnalds (found on YouTube) _at the same time_ (trust me) while you read. The title (which honestly I didn't realize until after I wrote this) apparently means "you are the sun." Perfect, right? So combine those two links together for some extra metaphorical goodness. This started out as a drabble and morphed into a poem when I decided to add line breaks. Takes place during _New Moon_. I realize these author's notes are longer than the poem, shh.

* * *

><p><strong> <strong>The Girl in the Woods<strong>  
><strong>  
>Could you love the girl in the woods?<br>The one they found mangled and broken and lost  
>without scratches upon her skin?<br>She has empty eyes full of dead moonlight  
>and the ghosts of dried leaves in her hair.<br>You can hear her heart beating quick as a bird's,  
>but her hands will always be cold.<p>

Could you love the girl in the sea?  
>She will self-destruct before your eyes,<br>crumbling to the ocean like fragile mossed cliffs.  
>He will carry her away with his lingering storm<br>and his teeth sunk deep in her roots.  
>You can throw yourself after and follow her down,<br>but the air makes it harder to breathe.

Could you love the girl she's become?  
>Perhaps you can make her smile again<br>without sticks and strings to shape her form.  
>But she isn't the child you used to know,<br>muddy and sunlit and dreaming.  
>You can hold her close to hear her heart beat,<br>but her hands will never be warm.


End file.
